


how winning is done

by jolach



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Realizing Things™, doofus4doofus, gratuitous philadelphia references, past age gap, wolves!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 20:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolach/pseuds/jolach
Summary: Travis stares at the ceiling. “My best friend fucked Jonathan Toews and never told me,” he says. “Give me, like, a minute.”





	how winning is done

**Author's Note:**

> Absolute fluff. No apologies.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. The article, however...the article is very real.
> 
> Heads-up that this includes mention of age gaps. More notes at the end.

Travis starts closing his open tabs. He normally avoids all the media shit—he’s told his mom to fly down and smack his phone out of his hand if she ever sees him on Twitter—but every couple of weeks or so his agent sends him an email with some links to the good stuff. It’s usually good for twenty minutes of killing time. He should be showering, probably, but instead he’s stretched out on his couch, chewing on a hoodie string and reading.

He’s about to close the last one—some player ranking thing on the NHL website—when he sees Patty’s face in the Related Content links. He clicks automatically.

It’s an old article—fall of 2017. Travis snorts at the picture of rookie Patty and keeps scrolling.

> _It was Toews who reached out to Patrick in the offseason to suggest they should work out together._
> 
> _"I found out his family's got a cabin that's about 40 minutes to an hour from my place [Lake of the Woods, Manitoba]," Toews said. "So I was just wondering if he was going to be out there. I gave him my number, and said, 'Hey, if you're going to be out there this summer, you're welcome to come train and skate. We've got a group going in August,' in this small town close to the lake._

Travis remembers Pats talking about having worked out with Toews—pretty fucking sick to pull off right after getting drafted—but he hadn’t realized it had been Toews’s idea.

> _"So it ended up working out. He was pretty much at our place working out every day on the ice. We had a really good group with a skill coach going, and it was a lot of fun. He's a talented young player, obviously a great personality, fun to be around."_

Travis grins around the hoodie string. Like, he likes hanging out with Pat, duh, but he’s pretty sure nobody else has ever said he has a “great personality.”

> _Patrick was thrilled to be mentored by Toews, a three-time Stanley Cup champion with Chicago._
> 
> _"He's one of the smartest guys I've ever met with stuff like that," Patrick said. "If you listen to him talk, some of the things he's telling me, I don't even understand what he's saying. Sometimes he has to slow down for me."_

“Jesus, Patty, keep it in your pants,” Travis mumbles. It’s not a surprise—Travis knows Pat wears nineteen because of Toews. Still. Patty’s never talked that much about that summer to him. It’s weird to read.

> _While Patrick basked in Toews' wisdom, Patrick's youthful energy of Patrick did something for Toews._
> 
> _"I think I'm 10 years older than him exactly, so sometimes I forgot how much older I was," Toews, 29, said. "But it was fun to have a training partner like him, especially a young guy with his energy and talent. It kind of sparks a little motivation within you as well."_

Travis frowns.

> _He said the injury impacted his mobility and Toews suggested ways to improve it. Of course, the lake came in handy after practice._
> 
> _"We were swimming every day after workouts, so wasn't much showers … shower in the lake," Patrick said._

Travis reads the paragraph again. He chews on the hoodie string. He closes the tab, then closes his laptop. He stares at the beige ceiling of his apartment for about ten seconds, and then he sits up and grabs his phone off the coffee table.

Patty answers his facetime after two rings. The screen only shows the beige ceiling of Pat’s apartment, but that usually just means he’s on Xbox or something. “Yeah?” Pat says, somewhere offscreen.

“You fucked Jonathan Toews?” Travis says. OK—maybe yells. A little bit.

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Patty says. There’s a scrambling noise, and then half of his stupid face fills the screen. “Who told you that?” Holy shit.

“Holy _shit,”_ Travis shouts at the phone.

Patty hangs up.

He still opens the door when Travis goes upstairs and knocks. Makes him wait out in the hallway for like thirty fucking seconds first, though. Asshole. Bet he’d answer the door faster for Jonathan Toews.

When the door finally opens, Pat has a motherfucker of a face on. As if that’s gonna scare Travis at this point. “This is so fucking stupid,” Pat says, voice flat and already turning around and walking back to the couch as Travis comes in.

“Stupider than fucking _Jonathan Toews?_ ” Travis asks, making a detour to Patty’s fridge. “And not _telling me?_ ” He grabs two beers from the vegetable crisper. “You want a beer?”

“You offering me my own beer?” Pat calls from living room. “And yes, please, fuck.”

“I fucking bought it for you,” Travis says, snagging the magnetic bottle opener off the fridge door. He pops the top off both of them, letting the caps ping to the floor, and crosses into the living room. Patty has his Xbox controller in his hand, but when Travis looks at the screen the game is paused. Travis stops in front of the coffee table hand hands over a beer. They both drink.

When Travis has finished off about half, he sets the beer down and puts his hands on his hips. “What–” he starts, and Patty is already groaning and tipping his head back against the couch, “–the _fuck_. What the fuck!”

“Why are you freaking out about this,” Pats says, but he’s not making eye contact, so Travis knows he’s full of shit. “Also, I never said that was true.”

Travis runs both hands through his own hair. Is it warm in here? Why does Patty keep the heat up so goddamn high? “Is it true?”

Pat crosses his arms over his chest, but then—fuck. Travis knows that horrible little twisty half-smile. “Listen–.”

Travis slowly folds himself down onto Patty’s living room floor and lies down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Patty says, and Travis notes distantly that at least he sounds like he’s laughing, a little.

Travis stares at the beige-ass ceiling. “My best friend fucked Jonathan Toews and never told me,” he says. “Give me, like, a minute.”

“It was before I knew you,” Patty says defensively. “And I’m not your best friend.”

Travis narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “What—how is that something you get to, like, correct me on.”

“Lawson is your best friend.”

It’s annoying how he remembers things. Travis flaps a hand at him. “I can have more than one. And who cares when it happened–”

“Oh, because you’ve fucking, what, told me everybody you’ve ever hooked up with–”

Travis sits straight up off the floor, Dracula-style. “None of _my_ old hook-ups have _three Stanley Cups_ ,” he says, and OK, maybe his voice squeaks a little, but Pats finally breaks down into giggles, and that’s always a good thing. “Was it, like—what the fuck. I knew you were into dudes, but–”

Pat snorts. “No you didn’t.”

Travis makes a face and grabs his beer off the table. “I could know,” he says. “I know things, sometimes.”

“Sure you do, Trav,” Patty says.

“OK, I _thought,_ ” Travis says. He takes a sip. “I’m—what is it—intuitive.” He hadn’t thought about it _hard_ , really, but it had occurred to him.

Pat slumps back against the couch and rubs a hand over his face. “I haven’t told anybody,” he mumbles.

Oh, shit. “That you’re into dudes? Fuck, dude–”

“No, Jesus,” Patty says, and Travis breathes a sigh of relief. “My family knows. I mean about Jonathan.”

 _Jonathan_. Jesus Christ. Also— “Patty,” Travis says. “Pats. You fucking—you gave an interview about it. To NHL dot com.”

Patty shrugs, but Travis can see his cheeks go red. “Nobody’s gonna figure it out.”

“I fucking did!”

“Yeah, well,” Patty shrugs again and gestures vaguely with his beer. “You know me pretty well, whatever.”

Travis rests his arms on the coffee table and his chin on his arms. “Aww, bud,” he says. “Don’t think being soft with me is gonna get me to drop this, like, ever–”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re so weird.”

“ _You’re_ weird, you—oh my God, you had a summer fling with Jonathan _fucking_ Toews,” Travis says, and, yup, it’s floor time again.

“It wasn’t, like–” Pat says, as Travis tries to do those breathing exercises his mom showed him. “It was chill, I don’t know.”

Travis counts to seven as he breathes in. “This is the least chill thing,” he says, and then exhales. “That has ever happened to me.”

 

-

 

It honestly takes, like, a solid week for just the fact of it to settle into Travis’s brain.

It’s not like he’s thinking about it all the time or anything. They’ve got practice and games and travel and all the regular shit. He doesn’t even think about it that much when he’s hanging out with Pats. But sometimes he’ll, like, be trying to fall asleep on the plane or something, and his brain will just be like–

_Patty fucked Jonathan Toews._

–and he won’t be able to process anything else for like fifteen minutes.

So it takes a while for questions about the details to even occur to him.

“So, like,” he says, driving down Broad Street while Pat picks through his fifteen fucking indistinguishable Spotify playlists. “Who made the first move?”

“Who made–” Patty starts, but then, “Oh, fuck off.”

“Like, did you go in with a plan, or–”

“I’m gonna murder you for doing this in the car where I can’t put you in a fucking headlock,” Pat says.

“Pfft,” Travis says, changing lanes. “You could try.”

“I fucking crush you all the time,” Patty says, finally looking up from the phone when Travis glances over.

“ _Not_ true–”

“–like, seriously, when was the last time you even made it a fight?”

“–I got that low center of gravity, eh, I’m wily–”

“–wily pain in my ass.”

“–was Toews a pain in your ass?” Travis says, unable to help himself, and he can’t stop laughing as Pat starts punching him in the thigh.

 

-

 

Once questions do start to occur to him, though, it’s hard to get them to stop.

“So is it, like, an ongoing thing?” Travis says, unwrapping his second Big Mac. It’s cheat day. Sue him. “With JT?”

“Why, you thinking about going after him?” Patty says flatly, popping a fry in his mouth. They’re having a dinner date. Travis cleaned all the mail off his dining room table and everything.

Travis grins. “I dunno, you think I got what it takes?” He thinks Toews looks kind of like a lizard, but that’s not the point.

Patty shakes his head and dips a fry in the little tub of mayo Travis put out for him. Weirdo. “Definitely not.”

Travis clutches at his heart. “Cold-blooded, Pats,” he says, and takes a bite of his burger.

“We text every once in a while,” Patty says, shrugging. Travis chews and tries to imagine Patty writing flirty texts. He fails. “But it’s not like—I mean, we weren’t, like, boyfriends or anything.”

The last bit is extra mumbly. Travis swallows and frowns. “Wait—nothing bad went down, right?”

Patty rolls his eyes. “No–”

“–’cause, like, I know I didn’t get to do the ‘break his heart and I’ll break your face’ talk or anything, but–”

“–please stop talking–”

“–do we play them again this year? Does he fight?” Toews is definitely taller than Travis, but so are all the other dudes Travis fights, and that’s without the extra motivation.

“Trav. It wasn’t like that,” Patty says, which is good, because Travis wouldn’t mind fighting Toews, but he’s pretty sure half the Chicago D corps would be after him for the rest of his life, and that sounds exhausting.

“OK. Good.” Travis takes another bite of his burger. They sit and chew in silence for a moment. “So it was purely a sex thing, then.”

“Oh my God.”

“Just like—all about his hot old man bod.”

Patty carefully puts down the fry he was holding. “Is that, like, what you’re into, or...” Travis says, grinning as Pat pushes his chair back and stands up. “Hey, Joe Thornton wears nineteen, too, how do you feel about beards–” and then Pat has made it around the table and put Travis in a headlock.

Fuck, Travis forgets how big he is sometimes. Travis flails out the hand still holding his burger as Patty drags him out of his chair. “No fair, I’m still eating,” he says, laughing.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Pats says, and after a second of grappling he’s got one of his stupid giant hands on Travis’s wrist and, oh my God, he takes a bite out of the burger. “So sorry about that,” he says with his mouth full. Travis can feel him laughing against his back.

“It’s not my fault you have a grandpa fetish,” Travis says, breathless. “Don’t take it out on mphhmm–” and yup, that’s a burger right in the face.

 

-

 

Half of Travis’s conversations with Pats end in some form of mild violence anyway, but still, on the off-chance Patty really doesn’t want to talk about it, Travis tries to keep his questions to himself for a bit.

Questions like: when did it happen? Was it during a workout? Patty hates talking during workouts, so it’s hard for Travis to imagine him, like, putting the moves on anybody, even if Toews is into the whole sweaty-glowy look.

Travis rolls over in bed and half-heartedly rearranges his pillow.

No. Probably not during a workout. What else had been in that article? Right. The lake.

Travis had gone with some of the boys to the Jersey shore in the preseason. Patty had barely left the ocean. He’d gotten sunburned so bad. Travis had slapped him hard on the back and nearly cried laughing at the white handprint it left. Yeah. Definitely the lake.

Pat probably did his stupid spearfishing thing that he’s so proud of. Travis likes fishing—Travis _loves_ fishing, actually—because it’s fucking relaxing. Hunting—which he also likes—is a totally different thing. Typical Patty to take two fun things and make something intense and weird out of them.

Jonathan Toews seems kind of intense and weird. He probably got a mega boner over Pats doing his stupid shirtless spearfishing thing.

Travis sits up, flips his pillow over, and flops back down.

That’s good. Pat should have hookups with people who appreciate his weirdness. Maybe Jonathan Toews does weird intense things that Patty gets super boned up about.

Huh. What is Pats even _like_ when he’s super boned up about something? Travis has no idea. The closest thing he can think of is the way Pats gets all focused and quiet when he’s hunting. That would be a lot of attention to have focused on you.

It’s weird that there’s something about Pats that goddamn Jonathan Toews knows and Travis doesn’t.

 

-

 

Patty falls asleep on the plane to Minnesota, like, less than ten minutes into the episode of Friday Night Lights. Travis kinda wants to keep watching, but Pat will just whine at him to rewatch it with him later to catch up, so he closes the laptop and carefully unplugs the headphone splitter.

“You’re a buzzkill, you know that?” Travis murmurs on the dark plane. Patty’s mouth is hanging open, face half-smushed against his neck pillow. If it’s still like that in an hour Travis is gonna open up the peanut M&Ms he brought and see how many he can fit in there.

Travis dicks around on his phone for a little bit, leaving some troll comments on Lawson’s finsta and failing spectacularly at Tetris for a while. He’s gotta find a better way to pass time on planes. Provy’s always reading—maybe you can get Animorphs books on e-reader.

Watching Animorphs videos on YouTube kills half an hour. God, Minnesota is far away.

Travis looks over at Pats. His greasy-ass hair is falling in his face. He’s gonna start snoring soon for sure. Travis should get him one of those little eyemasks, the ones with the eyelashes drawn on them. He’d fucking hate that.

Travis goes back to his phone and types _jonathan toews interview_ into YouTube.

Dude’s got eyes like black little buttons. His voice kinda reminds Travis of Patty’s—all low and monotone. Maybe that’s what everybody sounds like in Winnipeg. The idea of the two of them graveling back and forth at each other is fucking ridiculous.

It seems like every interviewer asks about becoming captain super young. Travis looks it up. Jesus, the year after his rookie season? Travis can’t imagine. I mean, he was a captain in the OHL, but that’s a whole different thing.

He looks over at Pat again. He’s definitely gonna drool on his neck pillow. Travis hopes he doesn’t think he needs to be a captain by now. G’s not going anywhere. Patty’s got time. His goalless streak will end. It always does.

Travis goes back to his phone, scrolling through other interviews and reading the titles. “Consciousness is optimization?” he mutters. Christ. Patty’s got weird fucking taste. Travis closes the app, puts his phone in his pocket, and starts digging in his bag for his M&Ms.

 

-

 

OK. The porn thing is weird. Travis can admit that the porn thing is weird.

He just wants to know. It feels so weird not to know. And it only takes like two clicks to get to the gay section of his regular site, so, like. He’s barely going out of his way. He’s going, like, next door. Seeing what all the fuss is about.

Man. That does not look like it should feel good, but—wow. It must. Based on—huh.

Travis turns the brightness up on his laptop. He’s glad he thought to put headphones in.

He doesn’t really think Pat is that flexible. And he—like, he can imagine Pats with a dude, OK. But it’s hard to imagine Patty letting anybody pin him down like that. At least not without a fight. That would be half the fun.

And it’s—it’s weird to try to picture that sort of unselfconscious blissed-out look on Patty’s face. Travis’s brain kind of stutters on it and get stuck there. But this whole thing is weird. Travis can admit that.

Well. Even if it’s weird and hard to imagine. Travis hopes it felt that good.

 

-

 

Turns out they do play the Hawks again. Travis never really looks that far ahead in the schedule—he plans his vacations at the beginning of the season, immediately forgets everything, and then just lives by whatever the video coaches tell them. Pats makes fun of him for it, but Travis isn’t the one who only packed one dress shoe for their California road trip, so who’s the idiot now.

The point is, it sneaks up on him a little bit.

He can tell Pat is waiting for him to bring it up that week. Patty thinks he’s slick. He’s not slick.

“Good schedule this week,” Pat rumbles in the car on the way home from practice on Sunday. Blues tomorrow. Hawks on Wednesday. Kings Friday.

“Yup,” Travis says. Silence for a moment.

“Should be able to pick up some points,” Patty says after a bit.

“Oh, for sure,” Travis says. He chews on his lip and tries not to grin. Hell yeah, he can be mature and chill about this. Look at how chill he’s being. The chillest.

Patty drums his fingers on his thigh and clears his throat. “Nice to get the, like, every-other-day schedule going,” he says. “Gets you into a good rhythm.”

Travis does _not_ say “Did Jonathan Toews get you in a good rhythm?” because Travis is the _king_ of being chill. If Pats wants to go have his old man hook-up, Travis is not going to make a big deal out of it, because Travis rules. “Totally agree, bud,” is what he actually says.

Pat grunts. They ride in silence for a few more blocks.

They stop at a red light. Travis looks over, just to check. Patty’s got his head resting against the glass like he’s thinking about something. His wet hair is curling a little behind his ears, and the collar of his t-shirt is still a little damp. He’s chewing on his thumbnail. He turns his head and looks at Travis.

“You wanna stop at the Italian Market and get soft pretzels?” Pat says, and Travis puts his turn signal on.

“I’ll double park, you run in?” Travis says, hanging an abrupt left as soon as the light turns green.

“Obviously.”

 

-

 

The game is honestly exactly like all the other games they’ve played against the Hawks, which makes sense, given the timing of everything, but still. Travis thought maybe he’d pick up on, like—coded body language during faceoffs, or whatever.

Then again, when he thinks about it, ruthless competition might be how the two of them do foreplay. Who fucking knows.

The Flyers scrape out a win—Hartsy stands on his head, as per usual, and Patty has a fucking unbelievable dish to Coots on the powerplay to get them the lead in the last five minutes. Jake gets the empty-netter, and that’s all she wrote. Fuck yeah. Fuck Chicago.

Travis doesn’t get any points, but he puts up a screen on the game-winner and knocks Brent Seabrook on his ass twice, which is good enough for him.

Patty’s not in the locker room when Travis gets out of the showers, and Travis figures he must just be doing media until he notices Pat’s stuff is already gone from his stall.

Travis spots them in the hallway.

There’s nothing, like, out of the ordinary about it—dudes meet up after games all the time. Buddies from junior, guys you know from national team stuff, old teammates. This doesn’t look any different than that, probably, to anybody but Travis.

Patty’s got his game bag slung over his shoulder and that gray hat he loves so much squished down over his hair and his hands on his hips, which Travis always tells him makes him look like dinosaur, but what the fuck does Travis know.

Toews looks fine. He’s smiling. Obviously.

What Travis wants to do is what he would normally do, which is go over there and hipcheck Pats and tell him to get his ass to the car. And then put on a dumb movie, fall asleep on Patty’s couch, make Patty make them both breakfast in the morning, and then drive them back to practice to do it all over again.

Or—if he can’t do that—he wants to call down the hall ask Pats if he wants a ride home or what. Make Toews look over. See what kind of face he makes.

But that’s fucking stupid, because Pat obviously has plans, and it’s probably hard for him to hook up with dudes since he’s been drafted, and Travis doesn’t want to screw up an opportunity for him. Right? Right. Idiot.

Travis turns away down the hall and starts walking towards the elevator to the parking garage. He can still watch a movie. Maybe get a Frosty at a Wendy’s drive-through on the way home.

“Trav! Wait up.”

Travis turns around, and the look on his face must be something else, because Pats laughs as he jogs to catch up. “You got somewhere to be? Jesus,” he says.

Travis looks behind him. Toews is already gone. What?

“Dude,” Travis says. Pat is already walking toward the elevator, and Travis hurries to catch up. “I was trying not to cockblock you,” he says, voice hushed.

It must not be quiet enough for Pat, who slants him a look. Travis bites his tongue until they get in the elevator.

“He’s getting on a plane in, like, half an hour,” Patty says once the doors close. “I was just saying hey.”

“Oh,” Travis says. That makes sense. “I mean, half an hour. I bet there’s a free closet around here or something—” he says, and then giggles when Pat shoves him half-heartedly.

“Fucking freak,” Pats says fondly.

Travis scoffs. “Wow, look who’s too good to get railed in a closet. Fancy, eh.”

Patty bursts out with a shocked laugh, which Travis counts as a win. “Oh, man,” Pat says. The elevator dings open. “Other way around, bud,” he says, giving Travis two friendly pats on the cheek, and then walks out in the parking garage like he didn’t just melt Travis’s entire brain.

God. Travis doesn’t know _anything_.

“Come on,” Pat calls, and Travis finally leaves the elevator. “I wanna watch Mamma Mia.”

 

-

 

So Pats didn’t just fuck Jonathan Toews. Pats _fucked_ Jonathan Toews.

Travis has to revisit some things.

 

-

 

Pat falls asleep twenty minutes into Mamma Mia with his feet in Travis’s lap.

“You’re the worst,” Travis mutters. He was supposed to get to sleep on this couch. Patty doesn’t answer, obviously, because he’s fucking asleep. At least he got out of his game suit first—he’s in a Wheat Kings shirt and basketball shorts because, once again, his heat is up way too high.

Travis sighs, resettles Patty’s fucking huge troll feet more comfortably in his lap, and tries to focus on Meryl.

He loses the plot pretty quickly. He could turn it off. But the songs are catchy.

Patty’s feet are so heavy. Travis thumbs across the knob of bone at his ankle. He looks over and takes in the way Patty’s curled up his big body to fit on the couch, halfway into a fetal position. That shirt’s too small for him, now. “Gotta get you a bigger couch, bud,” Travis says. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you want the Duck Hunt machine.”

Dead to the world. Travis could probably leave without waking him up.

Travis sighs. “Oh, Meryl,” he says, putting his feet up on the coffee table and settling in for the night. “What are we gonna do.”

 

-

 

It’s one of those games where one bad goal goes in, and then two, and then suddenly it’s early in the third and they’re down 4-1 and Coots is limping off the ice after his bad knee got caught, and—just—fuck this.

Patty’s on fire, at least. Travis has given up on them ever getting to play on a line together for real, but it’s still pretty awesome to watch him from the bench. Every loose puck, he’s there, swooping in like some big scary bird. A big scary bird that can push dudes around. He doesn’t look that fast, but he’s everywhere on the ice, with that look on his face like he’s going to turn this game around all on his own by scaring the shit out of it.

Travis believes he can do it, but the game doesn’t cooperate.

Pats ends the game with nearly twenty minutes of ice time, seven shots, one disallowed goal, two minutes in the box for roughing, and no points. Travic winces when he snaps his stick in half over the boards before heading down the tunnel.

Travis had an assist on their one goal, which means he somehow drew a short straw for media. He doesn’t mind it as much as some of the guys, at least. It’s not that he _likes_ losing, or anything—but, God, sometimes he thinks Pat hates losing more than Travis loves winning. And Travis loves winning _a lot_.

When he finishes answering questions, Pat is in the corner of the dressing room, head bent to listen intently to G. G’s got his serious face on. Travis can wait.

Patty doesn’t even plug his phone in when they get in the car. Travis turns the radio on and finds a classic rock station, that real old man shit. No response.

Traffic up Broad fucking sucks. Why does nobody know how to drive in the rain?

If Travis can’t drive fast he’d honestly rather just get out and walk. The farther north they drive—crawl—the taller the buildings get, and the more it feels like Pats shrinks and crunches up in the passenger seat.

Travis should probably leave him alone, but he’s never known how keep his mouth shut. “I wanna go somewhere. You wanna go somewhere?” he says. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Like where,” Pat says, not looking up. He’s got a foot up on the dash, curled in on himself, and Travis would tell him to cut it out if this weren’t technically Patty’s car.

“We have tomorrow off, man, wherever,” Travis says. He wants to get out from under the city. He wants to get to somewhere he can turn in a full 360 degrees and not see anybody but maybe, like, some birds. And Pats. “What’s that park that’s near here? Google it.”

Patty sighs, but he does get his phone out.

“Valley Forge,” he says after a moment.

“How far away?”

Pats shrugs. “Like forty minutes on 76.”

“You wanna go to Valley Forge?” Travis says, looking over and waggling his eyebrows. Patty doesn’t smile, but his face does a little sort of pained twitch that means he’s thinking about it. “Fresh air? Trees? Look up at the stars?” Water would be better, but he’s improvising.

“It’s raining,” Pats says, but he’s still looking at Travis, which is an improvement, and he’s definitely amused, which is a victory.

“Wow, look who’s afraid to get rained on,” Travis says, inching forward through a green light. “Real tough guy here, eh.”

Pats looks at his phone again. “Park closed at sundown, bud,” he says.

“Look who’s afraid to get rained on while trespassing–”

“Trav,” Pat says, and Travis glances over. “It’s OK. I’m good. Really.” He’s uncurled a little, at least. “Thanks, though.”

“You’re good?” Travis says, glancing over.

“Yeah,” Pat says. He’s pulled his hat off and is running a hand through his damp hair.

Travis isn’t buying it. “Nah,” he says. “You’re not good.” He sees Patty whip his head around, ready to start shit, which normally Travis would be into, but– “You’re fucking...” he searches for a word, “awesome.”

“Trav–”

“You were a fucking monster out there tonight, that call was bullshit–”

“Oh my God–”

“You’re better at COD than me, I’ll never repeat that–”

“–you don’t have to, we both know–”

“You’re a goddamn smokeshow, you bagged a fucking NHL captain without even trying–”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Pat says, and he is laughing for real now, the big embarrassing hiccuping ones he does sometimes that stretch his Play-doh face out, and Travis can finally relax. “Oh, God,” Pats says, face in his hands. “I tried, like, really hard.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re, like, goal-oriented, eh?” Travis says, changing lanes and accelerating through a yellow light and wondering about what _trying hard_ means in that context. “You fucking love to try hard, nerd. Which is why you’re gonna be fine.”

Pats wipes his eyes. “Jesus. OK.”

“OK,” Travis says.

They’ve finally made it properly downtown, City Hall rising closer and closer at the end of Broad Street. On rainy, misty nights like this, the lit-up clock face on the tower looks like an extra moon, hauled down close.

“I love you, man,” Pats says quietly.

Travis blinks. “Well—good,” he says, then, “Shut up,” when Patty snickers. “I love you too, dumbass,” he says, and then they’re home.

Pats looks down at his phone again while Travis looks for an open spot in the parking garage.

“Huh,” he says.

“What.”

“Did you know there’s a wolf preserve in New Jersey?”

 

-

 

The wolf preserve is fucking _sick_.

 

-

 

“I bet you were raised by wolves,” Travis says, driving back on Saturday afternoon. Pat has a folder about his new personal sponsored wolf in his lap. Travis is using his free hand to finally eat his breakfast sandwich. The tourguide had made him leave it in the car.

“God, I wish,” Pat says.

Travis takes the exit to get them back across the river into Philly. It is disturbingly easy to imagine Patty, like, perched naked in a tree with hair down to his waist. Sleeping in a big pile of fur. He likes sushi, he could probably eat fish raw. “Don’t think wolves know how to play hockey, bud.”

“Hmm,” Pats says. Travis glances over and sees him looking back. “True.”

Travis grins as they cross the bridge. “I bet we could figure out, like, an Air Bud situation.”

 

-

 

Travis doesn’t mind taking a hit, but he prefers to see them coming—half the time he can lay the other guy out instead. This one, he doesn’t see. It’s a cruncher, hard up against the boards as Travis tries to recover a puck he fumbled on the powerplay.

That probably explains why, as he grimaces and gets up on his knees, somebody in orange jumps the guy.

Nice. Travis runs his tongue over his teeth out of habit. He’s fine, he’s pretty sure—the spotter might yank him, but he doesn’t think so, he just got the wind knocked out of him, he’s ready to go, let’s _go_ —but he appreciates somebody stepping in. He winces and squints at the roar of the crowd. He’s not used to ducking hits like that on the powerplay.

On the powerplay. Second unit. Where he plays with–

Oh, fuck. The crowd roars again.

By the time Travis has gotten fully back on his feet, the zebras are pulling Patty off the guy and dragging them both to the box.

Pats catches his eye over the ref’s shoulder, hair wild and face red. Looks so fucking dumb. Doesn’t seem like he’s bleeding. Travis gives him a nod. He’s OK.

It’s probably stupid for Patty to get matching majors when they’re in the middle of a powerplay. It’s definitely stupid for Travis to drop the gloves one faceoff later when a D man asks if he always lets his girlfriend do his fighting for him. Travis never said he was smart.

His ears are ringing, but not in a bad way.

“Had to come check on me?” Pats says as Travis sits down in the box.

“Looked comfy in here,” Travis says, taking his helmet off. He looks Pats over. Face seems OK, just flushed, but he’s flexing one of his hands—the knuckles are torn up. Red. “All right, bud?” They need that hand.

“Yeah, just the skin,” Pat says. “Had worse.”

“Tough guy,” Travis says. There’s an arena full of fans there, and more than a few right up against the glass shouting things that Travis has long since learned to tune out, and hell, there’s the regular dude sitting in the box next to them, and what Travis wants to do more than anything is take Patty’s hand in his and carefully look it over himself inch by inch.

And he can’t. Because—he can’t. But he wants to, and he’s probably staring a little bit, and he thinks Pats wouldn’t even mind, really, but he can’t, because—because.

Travis knows that the way he is about Pats isn’t—you know. It’s probably not how he’s supposed to be about his best friend. It’s not how he is with Lawson, or with any other teammate with bloody knuckles. But he doesn’t normally stop himself from doing something just because people would see. That’s new.

“You OK?” Pats says, squinting. “Shit, _did_ he catch you up high?” he asks, and then his hand twitches out towards Travis’s head just for a second—and then stops.

Nobody else probably even saw it.

“I’m good,” Travis lies.

Travis isn’t good at lying.

Fuck.

 

-

 

It snows, which, like, whatever, Travis knows how to drive in snow, but apparently nobody else fucking does, because practice gets cancelled.

He facetimes Pat as soon as he sees the text.

“I saw,” Patty answers, groggy.

“Snow day, baby,” Travis crows. “I’m going downstairs to Wawa, what do you want.”

“You’re like a five-year-old,” Pat says. He rolls over in bed, taking his phone with him as he smushes his face onto his pillow. Travis grins. “Soft pretzels. Coffee.”

They set up camp in Patty’s living room, where he’s basically just hauled all his bed blankets out onto the couch and piled them on top of himself.

“You ever heard of a throw blanket?” Travis asks, pegging a marshmallow at Patty’s head where it protrudes from the blanket pile. It bounces off and gets lost immediately in fucking Cozy Mountain.

“No,” Pats says flatly. Travis shoves a foot under the comforter. “Jesus, your feet are like ice.”

“Baby,” Travis says, throwing another marshmallow up in the air and catching it in his mouth. Patty’s leg hair is scratchy against his toes.

“Wait, do another one,” Pat says, and Travis lobs a marshmallow toward him. Patty cranes his head, everything below the neck still hidden under the blankets, and snags it out of the air.

“Whatta snipe,” Travis says, and Pats chews smugly.

Travis, just, like. Fuckin’ loves him to death.

He shoves at Patty’s leg with his foot. “Where’s your remote?”

Nothing exciting has been added to Netflix, so Travis just starts channel surfing. “Ooh, Springer.”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.” Travis keeps surfing. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Pats is looking at his phone, poking up out of the blankets like a periscope. Ninety percent chance Travis is gonna end up on his finsta story with a dumbass expression.

“Rocky is on.”

Pat flicks a look up at the TV. “Never seen it.”

Travis narrows his eyes and waits for the punchline.

Patty’s expression doesn’t change, but he starts to go a little red. “What.”

Travis cannot believe he—he can’t fucking believe him. “Pat.”

“What.”

“You live in Philadelphia–”

“Like, barely–”

“–you _play sports_ in Philadelphia–”

“Oh, I didn’t realize there was, like, a fucking syllabus–”

“It’s, like, the most famous Philly thing!” Travis says, throwing his hands up. “There’s a statue! At the art museum!”

Pats gives him a look with a lot of disdain for a man in his pajamas who’s _never seen Rocky_. “Like you’ve ever been to the art museum.”

Travis grins despite himself. “I could have, you don’t know.” Pats scoffs. “I was here for, like, a whole year before you showed up. And that’s not the point! It’s, like, the best sports movie ever made.”

Patty looks at him like he’s been slapped. He takes a deep breath, really gearing up for something. God, Travis loves today. “ _Miracle,_ ” he says, seriously, “is the best sports movie ever made.”

“Eh,” Travis says, and watches Patty’s eyes widen. “It’s OK. Rocky is–”

“It’s _OK?_ ”

“Like, it’s fine, but–”

“You are—how can you like a _boxing_ movie better than _Miracle_ –”

“Nice stereotypes, bro, just because I play hockey–”

“At least pick fucking _Slapshot_ , what’s _wrong_ with you–”

“–I’ve got, like, depth, eh–”

“What kind of Canadian _are_ you–”

“–Miracle is about fucking USA hockey,” Travis shouts. “Fuck those guys.”

“Yeah, but fuck Russia also,” Patty says, which is fair. Travis takes a second to think. He pops a marshmallow in his mouth and chews on it to buy himself time.

“Remember the Titans is better than Miracle,” he says, finally, because he thinks he might actually be able to make Pat’s head explode.

“Are you—you’re fucking with me,” Pat says, but there’s just a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Talladega Nights is better than Miracle,” Travis says, and he swears he’s not gonna laugh, but Patty starts just absolutely frog-kicking at his legs under the blankets and he loses it. “Teen Wolf—Teen Wolf is better than Miracle,” he manages to gasp out, giggling and curling up to protect himself. He steals some blanket in the process. Get him where it hurts.

Patty pauses in his assault to catch his breath. “I’ve never actually seen Teen Wolf.”

“You’ve never seen _Rocky,_ ” Travis says. Pat tips his head back against the armrest and groans. “We’re fucking watching it, bud, or I’m telling the Inquirer you’ve never seen it in my next postgame.”

“Fuck you,” Pats says, but he settles down and rearranges his blankets a little bit, which is his way of giving up. “Get me a pretzel.”

“Huge baby,” Travis says, and gets up to go to the kitchen.

Pretzels need mustard. Travis goes for the fridge and then stops when he sees that Pat has put the picture from the wolf sanctuary up on it, held up with the magnetic bottle opener. “What’d you name this guy?” The wolf is very majestic. Travis kinda wants to draw a mustache on it.

Patty cranes his head over, and Travis taps the picture. “Oh, that’s Tazer,” Pat says. Ah.

Travis looks at the wolf again. Super majestic. It’s getting mustached as soon as Pats goes to take a leak.

“Jesus, your face,” Patty says, and starts laughing. “I’m joking, that’s Balto. Duh.”

Travis shakes his head and opens the fridge. “Isn’t Balto a dog?”

“You’re a dog,” Patty mutters half-heartedly.

Yeah. Travis probably is a dog. Like, a super fun and awesome dog. But probably not a wolf. Maybe, like, a coyote at most.

Travis sighs with his head in the fridge. He opened the fridge for something. But instead he just stares blankly at the half-empty takeout containers. Pats should have a wolf if he wants one.

Travis is having a really good day. Most of Travis’s days are really fucking good. It’s a fucking bummer if Patty’s aren’t as good. If something is missing.

Travis pulls his head out of the fridge and closes the door.

“Make sure you’re as slow as fucking possible, by the way,” Pat drawls from the couch. Travis looks over at him, waiting in a patch of winter sun. “You wanna watch this movie or not?”

Travis’s brain is moving a million miles an hour. He doesn’t really track how he ends up back by the couch, leaning against it. He can’t look at Pat right now. He squints out the windows and tries to think.

“Dude. Are you having a stroke?”

Travis sucks on his teeth and shoves his hands in his pockets and gives up trying to come up with a plan. He doesn’t know how this is gonna go, but he’s not one to go down without a fight.

“I have a cabin,” he says. “By a lake. I have a lake cabin.”

Pat just sort of looks at him and makes a _so what_ face.

“If that’s your thing,” Travis says, which is so, so stupid, but whatever. “I have that. It’s on Lake Erie, it’s nice—or, I like it, I guess.”

The things Pat’s face are doing would be fucking hysterical if the situation were different. “Trav, what the fuck–”

“Like, I know this doesn’t make any sense–” Travis starts, and then tries again. What does make sense? “Pats, I think I just—I thought I had, like, maxed out, right?” he says, laughing a little bit.

Pat is looking at him like he’s either gonna punch him in the face or make a break through the window. “Like, I thought I had the maximum amount of Patty that it was possible to have, which, like, this amount is super dope, don’t get me wrong.” Travis scrubs a hand through his hair. “But if, like—if there’s another level, you gotta tell me, eh?”

Pat’s face has frozen, eyes wide.

“‘Cause, like. I want that,” Travis says. “Maximum Pats, whatever that is.” Yeah. That makes sense.

Patty swallows. The TV’s still on, some car commercial taking up the silence. Travis can wait to hear what he has to say. “Trav–”

“And I’m probably not as good as Jonathan Toews,” Travis blurts out, “at hockey, or, like, sex, probably, but–”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Pats says, and covers his face with his hands, laughing.

OK. OK. That’s good. Travis really can wait this time.

Pat drags his hands down his face. “Trav,” he says. “Are you–” and there’s just a tiny little note of nervousness in his voice, but he holds Travis’s eyes, “Like, are you for real, or...”

Holy shit. Travis needs to, like, move, but he also doesn’t want to break eye contact in case he’s got Pat hypnotized or something, which only sort of explains why he basically climbs over the back of the couch without looking away from Pat, whose face just fully splits into a grin.

“I’m so fucking serious, dude,” Travis says, on his knees on the couch with his hands fisting in Pat’s stupid blanket pile. This is the best fucking day. Travis loves snow. “I’ve been freaking out for, like, weeks because Jonathan Toews knows what your o-face looks like and I don’t, I promise–”

“I fucking—I cannot fucking _stand_ you,” Pat says, flushing, and Travis is gonna get to touch him, Travis gets to touch him, Travis is inching closer down the couch without thinking about it, “Have you, like—Jesus, Trav, have you thought this through, like, at all?”

Travis snorts. “Obviously not,” he says, and then Pats has a hand in his shirt and Travis only barely manages to take a breath before, holy shit, he’s kissing Pats.

Technically, Pats is kissing _him_ , which, like, even better.

Wow. His lips are really soft. That’s so nice. Pats is so nice.

Travis wants to tell him, but he also wants to kiss more, so he just makes a happy noise against Patty’s mouth and crowds closer, pushing Pats back against the end of the couch, which is great except for there being a fucking mountain of blankets between them.

Patty starts laughing, rumbling right against Travis’s face. Travis breaks off and just presses his face against Pat’s cheek. Jesus, he’s warm. “What’s so funny?”

“I thought you wanted to watch the movie,” Pat says, trying to sound serious and just absolutely fucking failing. Travis looks over at the TV. Oh, right. Yup. There’s Stallone.

“Who? What?” he says, then turns back to Patty’s grinning face. “Rocky? Never heard of it.”

“You sure?” Pats says, which is impressive given that Travis has already put his mouth back on his mouth. Pat turns his head away, which, fine, just gives Travis the chance to shove his face in Pat’s neck, God, this feels fucking crazy and so good— “You seemed pretty serious about it before.”

Travis growls a little bit and feels Patty laugh. He sits back up a little and starts tugging at the blankets. “Get this shit outta here and I’ll show you how serious I am,” he says, and Pats throws his head back and cackles. Travis can’t stop smiling.

Patty doesn’t help at all, the asshole, but he at least doesn’t actively get in the way of Travis hauling all the blankets off of him and onto the floor of the living room. “I’m gonna get cold,” he says, and it’s bait, but Travis has literally never cared.

“I’ll keep you warm, baby,” he says, and he says it like a joke, but also, fuck. Patty is, like, a big dude, there’s a lot of him, stretched all the way down the couch. But—but he’s also wearing sweatpants that are a little too short for him, ankles sticking out, and his t-shirt has a hole in it, and his hair is a mess, and that’s because Travis touched it—

“Whenever you’re ready, dude,” Pat says, and Travis just fully tackles him.

God. Travis would have told you he knows Pats pretty well. Like, probably too well. So it shouldn’t feel like the end of the fucking world to just get on top of him. Getting to slot their legs together and tangle a hand in Patty’s greaseball hair shouldn’t be blowing Travis’s fucking mind.

Pats puts one of his giant hands on Travis’s face. Travis could probably get those fingers in his mouth. He puts it on the to-do list. “Don’t—you don’t get to be fucking me around, OK?” Patty mumbles.

“OK,” Travis says, because, like, he hadn’t thought about it, but obviously not. “I won’t, I’m not,” and that must be enough for Patty, because he pulls Travis down with a hand on the back of his neck and kisses him hard.

Travis knows Pat pretty well, but he didn’t know until right now how it felt to roll his lower lip in between your teeth, or the hungry noise he makes when you do it.

Travis pulls back. “You like that?” he teases.

He expects a chirp or an insult, but— “I like you,” Pats says, like it’s nothing, like that’s just a fine thing to say, and this time it’s Travis who makes an embarrassing noise when Pats draws him back down.

 

-

 

Later, when Pats has pulled Travis fully into his lap and somehow weasled Travis’s shirt off and Travis is absolutely most of the way hard just from making out—

“I’ll totally let you rail me in a closet,” Travis says, then grins into Patty’s neck when he splutters.

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Pat says. He digs his teeth into Travis’s shoulder, the spark of pain making Travis shudder. “Though for the record,” Pats says, mouthing over the bitemark, “I’m not, like, opposed to the other way.”

Oh, fuck. “Oh, _fuck,_ ” Travis says, squeezing his eyes shut, and then, whoops, there’s Pat flat on his back again. Crazy how that happens. Travis thunks his head into Patty’s chest and tries so hard to not just dry hump his best friend to death. “Fuck, Pats, you’d get so red, I’m gonna come in my pants–”

“Do _not_ come in your pants on my couch thinking about–”

“–what, it’s better if I come _not_ in my pants on your couch?”

 

-

 

Even later, when Pats is so, so fucking red, and Travis has his shirt rucked up his chest and is testing the way the soft skin of his belly feels under his mouth—

“You don’t–” Pats starts, and then loses his train of thought for a second, which rules. Travis looks up at him. “We can, like, go slow.” Pat licks his lips. “If you want.”

Travis pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. “Do you want to?”

Pats sits up on his elbows and looks down at Travis for a moment. “No,” he says, finally.

Dumbass. “Thank God,” Travis says, “I’ve been watching, like, so much fucking porn, dude–”

“You are so fucking weird,” Pat laughs, as Travis slides further down the couch.

“Yeah, and you’re rock fucking hard about it, bud.”

 

-

 

Later, later, later—

“Fuck,” Pat says, again. He winds his hands in Travis’s hair, but he doesn't pull. “Fuck, Trav, Jesus.”

Travis breathes through his nose and doesn’t rush.

Pats hisses. “Fuck, it’s—I’m not used to you being so quiet, Jesus.”

Travis chokes and pulls off. “You miss me running my mouth, bud?” he says, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

“Jesus, I take it back–”

“–can’t get off without it?”

Pats shoves lightly at his head. “Fuck, I regret everything, get back—get back to work,” he laughs, and then gasps as Travis takes over with his hand.

“I don’t believe you,” Travis sing-songs. Fuck, Pats is beautiful. Travis has so much to learn. “Plus, I said I wanted an o-face, remember?”

 

-

 

Patty’s place is basically a disaster area, so they just pull clothes on and go down one flight to Travis’s place to sleep.

“I’m fucking starving,” Pats says in the stairwell. The stuff from Wawa has been long since demolished. Pat puts an order in for like sixty bucks worth of sushi and makes Travis get it when it arrives.

“It’s your apartment.”

“It’s your food!”

“Yeah, I paid for it, you go get it.”

Pats got him the yellowtail ones he likes, so it’s OK.

They sit at Travis’s dining room table and silently destroy a sushi order that came with, like, five sets of chopsticks. Travis kicks a leg out and hooks a foot around Patty’s ankle just because.

Pats pops a piece of nigiri in his mouth “‘I have a cabin,’” he says in a dumbass voice. Travis grins at him toothily. “I can’t believe that was your line.”

“Worked, eh?” Travis says. Patty wrinkles his nose at him. “And I do. You’d like it.”

“Probably would,” Pat mumbles.

He would for sure. “Not as much hunting right there, too many people, but the fishing is, like, phenomenal,” Travis says. He tugs at Pat’s ankle a little. “You could do your stupid spearfishing thing.”

“You hate that,” Pat says absently, trying and failing to disassemble a California roll with his chopsticks.

Travis winces a little. “Maybe I don’t, like–” Pats flicks his eyes up at him. “Maybe my feelings about it are complicated, OK,” he says, and then Patty is putting down his chopsticks and coming around the table and Travis laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> fyi: this story involves a past brief relationship with a ten-year age gap. everybody's over 18, and it's not explored in depth, but it does come up throughout the fic and there are jokes about it. if that's not for you, might skip this one! fic also includes casual ableism.
> 
> \--
> 
> title bastardized from rocky, which i also haven't seen. forgive me.
> 
> the article TK reads is [100% real](https://www.nhl.com/news/nolan-patrick-took-part-in-jonathan-toews-training-camp/c-291740202)
> 
> at some point TK sneaks "chelsea dagger" into their sex playlist and pats vows never to touch his dick again. doesn't last.
> 
> yes, there really is a wolf preserve in new jersey.
> 
> thank you to [kingsoftheimpossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible) and [angularmomentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angularmomentum) for tolerating and supporting my headlong spiral into this ship.
> 
> thank you to TK for having a persona that allows me to write a POV character entirely without self-awareness, which is a nice change.
> 
> thank you to nopat for cruising for all-stars from the jump. respect.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] how winning is done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633259) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)
  * [[Podfic] how winning is done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686734) by [frecklebombfic (frecklebomb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic)




End file.
